The Owl Service by Alan Garner Page B

and dining-room table isn’t the place for sticky paper when you has to polish it every day and sometimes twice.”
    â€œIn the way?” said Roger. “You’ve ruined my prints, that’s all! In the way? Is it your job to decide what’s in the way here?”
    â€œI wishes to see Mrs Bradley,” said Nancy.
    â€œYou’ll not interfere with stuff that doesn’t concern you, that’s what you’ll do.”
    â€œHello, hello, hello,” said Clive. He began to talk while he was still coming in through the cloakroom. “What’s all the hoo-ha?”
    â€œI wants to speak to Missis,” said Nancy. “I’m giving notice.”
    â€œShe went and ruined—”
    â€œAll right, all right,” said Clive. “Let’s drop the temperature, shall we? Now then, old son, collect your tackle and scarper, eh?”
    â€œBut Dad—”
    â€œI’ll help you sort it out in the parlour, but wait a tick, there’s a good lad. I’ll be right with you.”
    Roger picked up the photographs and left the room. He went through to the parlour and unrolled the sheets on the floor, and listened to the voices – Nancy’s monotone, and his father’s persuasiveness – then Clive came back into the parlour. He was putting his wallet back in his pocket. “Expensive holiday, this,” he said.
    â€œI was all morning with these prints,” said Roger, “and she’s messed them up.”
    â€œEasy does it. You’ll not go far if you don’t learn to bend with the wind, and Nance is blowing a bit strong lately.”
    Roger spread out the photographs, weighting them at the corners with ornaments. “Well, actually, it’s not as bad as I thought,” he said. “If I can keep them flat now they may be OK. Sorry I flew off the handle, Dad: it was the way she slung them about. Couldn’t she see they were there on purpose?”
    â€œShe wouldn’t think,” said Clive. “You mustn’t expect the Nancys of this world to have too much savvy.”
    â€œGwyn seems pretty smart.”
    â€œAh yes: well: that’s the trouble: barrack-room lawyers we called them in the RAF. They’re the worst. But brains aren’t everything, by a long chalk. You must have the background.”
    â€œIs that why Margaret’s gone so County with Alison?”
    â€œTricky,” said Clive. “Very, very tricky – um – you know? Now what about these snaps of yours? Shall we put them on the billiard table? It’s better than in here, and we’ll anchor them with snooker balls. Not come out too well, have they? What’s this, a wet weekend in Brum?”
    â€œYou tell me,” said Roger. “I’ll put them in order. Now here’s the straightforward seven shots of that stone by the river. In the first three you can see Gwyn’s hand – he was sitting on top of the stone. Right. Now here are enlargements of the middle part of each picture. They’re all the same – the different shades are because I gave them different exposures – but you can see how I’ve made the hole frame the trees on the Bryn.”
    â€œYes, jolly good,” said Clive. “Quite effective.”
    â€œNow in the last two pictures Gwyn wasn’t there. But old Streakybacon had turned up and was making snide remarks. Here.”
    â€œJolly good: spot on again.”
    â€œAre they?” said Roger.
    Clive knelt over the prints and looked closely at them, comparing the two sets. “Aha,” he said. “Yes.”
    â€œWhat, Dad?”
    â€œIn these last two there’s something just inside the trees – between those on the left.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œUm – ah. Can’t say. It’s not on the others, right enough. Have you tried a magnifying glass?”
    â€œNo, but I’ve enlarged the enlargement. Now look at